Your birthday found you at Irby’s,
     like the universe knew
     exactly where to send the smile.

Title game on.
Crowd noise everywhere—
TV glow, glass clinks, the patio breathing.

And still—
    it felt like just us,
    tucked inside the roar.

Then Tuesday—
     you took the day off
     to recover from the kind of weekend

     that earns its own legend.

I did the office thing:
  meetings stacked like Jenga,
  face on,
  brain on,

  pretending I wasn’t counting hours.

Mid-afternoon you texted
    a craving—
    pizza, specifically—

    like a flare shot over Buckhead.

So we pre-thought it:
   Storico Fresco,
   dinner,

   a small reclaiming of “normal.”

But by go-time
    the hangover came back
    with receipts,
    and we punted.

No drama.
No guilt.

Just the quiet understanding
     that this is also us—

     the try,
     the almost,

     the sweet intention that still counts.

Another mulligan, then.

Tonight, maybe.
Tomorrow, maybe.

No hurry.

I’m still here,
    keeping the seat warm
    for the version of the evening

    that arrives when you do.